Twisted
by Tristis Lullum
Summary: “You know…” I started, mulling over my answer, “he does live there.”
1. Chapter 1

**Twisted**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own "CSI: Crime Scene Investigation" or any related characters. I only own, well, the perspective of this story, and the person who's telling it.

Chapter One

The move to Vegas was definitely difficult on me, though I didn't mind it so much. I was getting a promotion, so moving a state away for it wasn't too much to ask. Especially when pay would be much better. Today was my first day at the Las Vegas Crime Lab, and I couldn't not say I wasn't nervous. Though I was quite sure I'd get over my butterflies by the time I finished today, I wasn't sure. I mean, what honestly could go on that would make today so bad?

I turned the keys in the ignition, killing the engine. My hands rested absent-mindedly on the wheel, the keys perched in my right hand. The sight in front of me was a plain-looking building; it didn't seem to want to stand out too much. Though this was the place I was going to be working from now on, and I had to support myself, so there was no time for first impressions here. I only hoped I'd feel the same way after I met my new co-workers.

It's habitual to not like the new person. You have to teach them everything about the job, and then they often stutter, break things, or mess up. It's all part of the learning process, of course, but the human mind doesn't like that. Instead it just sees the error and with error you must discipline. That's how it works, right? My eyes locked themselves on the outside of the building, mind telling me I had to go – but of course my body didn't listen. So I sat there for a few minutes.

Then the clock told me it was approaching 1PM, and I needed to get my butt in there. I had at least five minutes, which I speculated was about the time I needed to get out, lock the car and walk to the front desk – assuming they had one. My last job didn't, the "front desk" as we did call it, however, was really just an office. A small office, belonging to one of the few secretaries we had there. So this was definitely different. Las Vegas is a big city, and I'm not used to big cities.

Flipping my cell phone to silent, I stepped out of my car and followed the locking procedure it required, stepping up onto the sidewalk and walking to the door. Sighing, I pulled it open and walked inside.

"I'm Anna-Elise Blair," I stated to the person at the desk, who was a friendly looking woman. "The new CSI."

"Oh yes," She started, pulling out what appeared to be some sort of file. Did they already have a file on me? Probably, I decided. "Right this way. Dr. Grissom will be your supervisor." She said as she got up from her chair, walking down a hall in an expectant fashion.

I followed her down the hall, glass walls passing by. In each one, there seemed to be people hard at work, either examining something or talking, sometimes I couldn't tell which. This place was definitely fancier than my old crime lab had been, and probably much nicer, too. Though like I said, no first impressions; or so I tried to convince myself.

Eventually she led me into a room where two people were sitting. This room wasn't all glass, like the other ones seemed to be. Or it might have been, but it was covered by blinds – most likely a conference room or something. There was a long table, chairs on each side suggesting that it was for a conference as well, and there were enough for at least ten people. Sitting in two of them, across from each other, was a man – maybe forty or so? – and a young woman with shoulder-length brown hair. She looked at me and smiled, though the man (who did acknowledge my presence with a look) did not. I shrugged it off as the secretary introduced me.

"This is Anna-Elise," She said politely, indicating me, "She's the new CSI." With that said, she left me with these strange, new people.

"I'm Sara." The woman introduced herself, turning around in her chair and extending a hand; which I shook.

"Gil Grissom." The man said, copying Sara's gesture. I smiled politely and took his hand, shaking it. Maybe he was just quiet, or something? I hoped. I didn't want to be judged so early on, before I even had a chance to prove myself.

"We were just about to have lunch, we sent Greg out to get food. We thought you'd be around by now, so we got you a frescata and a Coke; is that okay?" Sara asked as I sat down beside her and nodded. "It's great, but who's Greg?"

"Greg is another CSI that has fallen under Grissom's iron fist." She smiled and laughed a little, where Grissom offered a small smile. For some reason they found it funny, but it honestly terrified me.

"I-iron fist?" I repeated, stuttering. Sara started laughing harder at this.

"Don't worry, just forget about it." She smiled to me, gazing at the door. "So where'd you come from?"

"San Jose," I replied curtly, "I was a CSI there, too. They offered me a promotion, but I had to transfer here. They said something about how you were hiring… And the Crime Lab with the highest need for hands, outside of San Francisco."

Sara nodded, as if she understood. "I worked there, in San Francisco, I mean. It got pretty bad, I can see why you wanted to be here." She said, "Though unfortunately, Vegas isn't much better."

"I know," I smiled, "I did some research."

"Oh?" It was the… fourth? No, third word I had heard Gil say, but I heard Sara refer to him as just 'Grissom' so I guess that's what he likes to be called. "Research on Vegas, how'd that go?"

"I didn't believe half of it." I replied – I really hadn't, I guess if you don't read it out of a book, it's never reliable. But then again, there are some pretty weird books in print. Guess you're never really safe.

"Good girl." He said in a praising sort of way, which somehow made me feel like a dog. I stared at him for a minute before I heard the door open again, and I looked behind me to see a man with _very_ spiky brown hair nearly tumble in with at least four – maybe more – fast food bags.

He put a few down on the table, pulling stuff out of them. He handed Grissom a salad and a drink – I couldn't tell what it was – and he handed Sara a hamburger, though I _thought_ I didn't see any meat on it. Oh well. He also handed her some fries and a soda. He then pulled out what I was presuming was his, and he got out my frescata, drink, and fries – that I'm assuming are mine.

He took the two other bags – he had at least six, now that I had a good count – out the door.

"I'm surprised," Sara remarked, eating a fry. "He didn't notice Anna-Elise here."

"Was he supposed to?" I asked, curious. She smiled and nodded.

"Greg has an… Unusual talent for forking out the female personnel." Great, a pervert, I decided, opening up my sandwich's bag. "Is this a bad talent?"

"Oh, no. But don't be shocked if he asks you out or something. He might not, right off the bat, but I'm sure at some point within the next week or so, he will." Sara nodded, taking a sip of her soda. Grissom was just quietly munching away on his salad. "He considers himself a ladies man."

"Oh." It wasn't much, but I was about to bite into my food, so saying anymore would be rude and distasteful.

About the time I had finished half of my fries, Greg walked in again, sitting down to his own food before finally noticing me.

"Who's this?" He asked, though not impolitely, "Our new CSI?"

"Yes, she is." Grissom replied, having just about finished his salad. I noticed Greg looked at me again, as if he was surveying me, and I felt very conscience of his gaze as I continued munching on my fries.

"I'm Greg." He stated, which I already knew, but you know it was polite. He started eating though, and I didn't hear too much out of him after that.

"Anna-Elise."

"Catherine will be in soon," Sara remarked, looking at me. "She, Warrick and Nick are out right now… Doin' stuff." I looked at her confused. "They're getting food too, but they…"

"Hey! You made me get them food, and they're already getting some themselves?" Greg protested, seemingly finding it hard to choke down the food he had been in the process of swallowing.

"Oops…" Sara said in an airy way, not really feeling any sympathy. Greg just sort of sulked in a mock-hurt way. I smiled through my straw, which I was using to sip my Coke. It was definitely interesting how today was going, and almost all of my nervousness had evaporated. Almost.

Though the silence, or silence that had evolved from the conversation, pressed on only to be broken by the sound of a cell phone. Grissom reached around to pull it out of something, putting it up to his ear.

"Grissom," I heard him say as a greeting, "Yes?" He added, nodding his head despite the fact the other person could not see him. "Mmhm, yeah. She's right here, so is he. Yes, mmhm." Were the fragments of the conversation that we caught. And I found Sara watching him with as much enthusiasm as I was, and even Greg showed a mild interest – but seemed more entertained by keeping up his mask of fake hurting. "Okay."

Eventually, after what seemed like a year of "Yes," "Okay" and "Mmhm"ing, Grissom clicked the phone shut, looking at both Sara and Greg for a moment, before resting his eyes on Sara.

"That was Brass, we've got a homicide, at a very important person's house." He said easily, as if it was nothing. I was fairly used to this, of course, but how he could take something so easily I don't think I'd ever understand. But I'm sure years of experience had something to do with it. "Anna-Elise," He started, looking at me – I was in between Sara and Greg, so I guess that makes things easier. "You're coming too. It'll be a good chance for you to get used to things."

"Okay." I agreed, not wanting to seem afraid of the fact that right now, on my first day, I was being put in a case. Of course, what was I to expect? That was the job field I was in, so I had better get used to it. "Greg, Sara, you're coming too." They nodded in uniform and got up, picking up what was left of their food. I watched, quietly, for a second before mimicking them; following behind Sara like a stray dog.

We took two cars, which I was at some point unsure of as to why we were taking two cars, but then I decided it was to take evidence that we may need to process in the lab, so I didn't question their motives as I got in the car with Sara. Greg went with Grissom, which sort of surprised me, but not too much. If I didn't want to be judged by them, then I probably shouldn't judge them. We drove for a while, ending up in a suburb that was near my house. We parked in front of the house with the yellow crime-scene tape and walked inside. Though I thought I heard Greg say something along the lines of;

"Welcome to Paradise."

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	2. Chapter 2

**Twisted**

Chapter Two

"Welcome to Paradise."

That was the last thing intelligible that I had heard before I slipped into a pleasant state of numbness. It usually ebbed away after a while, but it was associated in my mind with the crime scenes. Every time I was at work – serious work, like this – either searching crime scenes, attending autopsies, or anything of the sort, my mind took it upon itself to make me feelingless, emotionless toward my surroundings. I couldn't hear much for a few seconds, as if my mind had secured me in a prison – soundless and dull.

I took it that I had been standing there, still, as it had happened, because I noticed Greg staring back at me, one eyebrow raised suspiciously. "Are you _afraid_ to come, or something?" He asked me, and I think he was smiling.

"No." I said flatly, becoming conscious of my surroundings. "I'm not _afraid_ of anything in there."

"If you say so…" He didn't seem too convinced, but seemed content on ignoring me as we filed into the house. It was an interesting house, and it belonged to somebody who definitely had quite a bit of money that they were perched pleasantly – until today, I assume – upon. The front room was decorated in a modern style, white carpet, a flat, square-shaped couch which was white as well, there was even a rug on the floor – wool or fur, of some sort – that was white. The staircase was glass, and clear, which seemed to complement the room, or at least I thought so.

Though there was nothing unusual here, lest you had an issue with white.

I saw Grissom standing near Sara, in a doorway that was to the back right of the room. You see, when you walked in, you were surrounded by white tile. To the left of the tile was the stairs, the far left wall had a wooden door – white, or oak – and there was two doors on the right wall. One close to the door, one far from it. And directly across from the front door were two glass doors, surrounded by two glass windows. One of the patio doors, however, was broken.

"Point of entry?" I suggested to no one in particular, making myself useful as I flashed two pictures of the glass before carefully picking up a shard and examining it. They were small pieces, very tiny in fact, suggesting the door was broken by a something small, moving at a very quick speed. A pipe, bat, or anything blunt and long would probably have been used. I looked up at Grissom and Sara, wondering what they were looking at.

It turned out that the doorway on the far right wall was the kitchen, the one across from it was a den – or formally used as a gambling room, and the one on the closer right wall was actually a dining room. Just to give you a little description here. Sara made herself useful in the kitchen, examining things near the point of entry, and possible departure as well. Grissom took the den and dining room, and I was upstairs. I had utterly no clue where the heck Greg was, but I honestly didn't care, either.

So I trudged upstairs, staring as the white walls – to match the entry room – were soaked in splotches of blood. "Hey guys," I called downstairs, poking my head out from the floor space; which I'm sure looked very odd. "We've got blood up here. And a _lot_ of it."

I guess Greg was going to take the kitchen, because Sara came upstairs with me. So together, we took photos of the blood, samples of the blood, and examined it very carefully before moving down the hall, where we discovered the coroner leaving. "Liver temp. was low, suggesting death was two days ago, earlier – like maybe around two or three in the morning."

_Two days, that long to be away? Interesting…_ I thought to myself, not really caring too much about what the person who found the body's motives for leaving the house where, but yeah. I had no room to suggest, I didn't even know who found the body.

"Who found the body?" I asked Sara, after the coroner left. I was so creative with wording.

"The owner of the house," She said, snapping pictures of the body. "He was away on business, came home, and found his wife dead."

"Pity." I mumbled nonchalantly as I pulled open a door to what appeared to be a master bedroom. It was tidily kept, decorated in warm, Starbucks-esque colors. The carpet was a cream soda color, while the walls were divided in half by a sort of paneling, the lower half was a brown, earthy color, whilst the top was a nice, warm red. The bedding matched the lower paneling, the underside of it being cream. It was pretty neat, too, folded back just precisely – indicating the fact that there had been no use.

"Do we have a story on the vic.?" I asked Sara, photographing the bedspread.

"She was home the whole time, though four days ago, she was with friends. Other than that…"

"Any reason to leave a bed nicely made?" I asked, moving to the nightstand and examining the contents on and around it. "It seems suspicious, considering you don't make your bed at three in the morning."

She remained silent to my comments, so I accepted the fact that maybe she didn't hear me, or perhaps she was busy with something else. Instead, I found some sleeping pills on the nightstand and photographed them, not really having a need to pick them up. They were standard, anyways. And she hadn't died of an overdose, or at least not immediately, considering the blood and the stab wounds. I moved on, taking note of the dresser, the cabinets, the carpet, the pillows – moving back to the bed, of course – and I double checked everything, just to be sure.

Eventually I moved to the room north of the master bed, which was the master bathroom. It was glassy, the tile was nice though. It was white and black-checkered, the shower was glass, though tinted, so in essence anybody with the light on couldn't see something in it. _Hiding spot?_ I thought numbly to myself, opening the door carefully. There was dirt in it, a lot of it too. Caking mud, and very untidy. Though I looked around the bathroom, examining the floor. "No mud, dirt or anything…" I mumbled, walking back into the bedroom.

I tramped back into the hall, downstairs, and to the door, carefully examining it. Grissom took note of my examining…ness, and walked up behind me, waiting for me to explain my quest for dirt, or something. "There's dirt in the tinted shower, but from here, on the white carpet, to the bedroom, there is no track, no trace, or anything of dirt, mud, or outside belongings." I stated, peeking my head out back. Though as I looked, there was not a single flower bed, grass spot, or place where dirt would plausibly be.

"They didn't come in from here." I said, finally.

"Then where did they come from?" I heard him ask me, and I thought about this for a minute. "There was a bathroom window, and there was a large one in the master bedroom, but I didn't find anything dirty on the carpet or tile there."

"Which is easier to clean, then; the tile, or the carpet? And which room is it in?" I listened to him, pondering this. The carpet in the bedroom was cream, which is easier to clean than white, yes, but it is still pretty difficult.

"The bathroom's tile." I said after a while, understanding his question. "Their point of entry?"

"Precisely."

I nodded as I abandoned the downstairs part of the house, trudging back up the glass staircase and into the master bedroom. Sara was there, examining the shower door that I had left open. "The suspect was probably in there," I had a very hard time stopping myself from saying 'he,' you see I'm very prejudice, and I seem to always think murders are done by males. Don't ask, it's my brain's fault. "So the window was his most plausible point of entry. He could have masked his footsteps." I explained, though Sara remained quiet, so I felt like I was rather talking to a wall instead of a person.

Either way, I made my way to the window frame and examined it. On the outside it hadn't looked so special, just a brick window frame, but from the bathroom, it was lined in expensive looking marble. Fumbling for the briefcase I had left in here, I found my powder and duster, dipping it carefully in the substance and starting the daunting task of fingerprinting.

A few hours passed, and I wiped my forehead with my sleeve, having easily forgotten the work involved in my field. Moving does that to you, it eliminates everything you knew down to a pin at your previous location. Grocery lists that you had memorized and used every time you went to the store somehow went 'poof' in an air of mockery, and just left your mind. You quickly forgot roads, plans, things that proved useless in your new life. Focusing on the new destination was much more important than little things. And in that haste, I had forgotten the work it took to investigate.

Not all of it was fatigue, however. Physical wear wasn't very evident to me, at least not now. It was more of my mindset, I felt tired. You see, you have to think; and you have to think a lot. People seem to underestimate our job greatly, which at times makes me angry at them, people seem to get ungrateful at times. But truth be told, it is actually very tiring on your brain. It makes sleep pretty easy, or at least it did for me.

After those hours had passed, I had taken a picture of a partial footprint I had found in the shower, lifted fingerprints, examined bedclothes and bedrooms for guests, taken care of studies, examined books, printed books, and done other tasks that involved things very much related to the previous topics.

I yawned as I gazed out the window I was nearest to, which happened to be the kitchen one. It was facing east, so of course outside was needless to say, very dark. Although the lights from the city took that all away, and so it was nearly mock-daylight. I sighed, carefully avoiding the instinct to lean against the counter, not wanting to screw anything up. It's amazing how careful you have to be in places like these. Though things were packing up, the body had been moved out an hour or so ago, and was being processed; meaning we were due back at the lab. Grissom and Sara were going to attend the autopsy, though I was quite positive I wanted to watch them – to get the hang of things here, in Vegas. It's not much different from San Jose, but heck, they might have different styles here. So who knew?

I got into Sara's car after Grissom and Greg had left, rubbing my eyes. They became fuzzy from the touch, which I had expected, but I didn't have too much of a problem with it. Instead I focused blurrily on the road ahead of us as Sara ignited the engine and drove off. We made it back to the lab pretty quickly, and I made sure to follow them into the autopsy room, with permission and only after suiting up, of course.

It was going to be a very long night.

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A/N: Okay, I had, what 300-some-odd hits, and only two reviews. Come on, people, it's not that hard to press a single button, give a comment or some constructive (flames are stupid, seeing as there is nothing productive in them whatsoever) critism, and press another little button. So go ahead, and look at the pleasant little "Go" button...

Thank you to PinkTank and BonnieAW for actually reviewing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Twisted**

Chapter Three

I stared at the door.

I couldn't do it, could I?

I had to go in there, though, I had to and there was no way around it. Or at least I told myself there wasn't. Though at least five minutes went by, then five more, and that was about the time when I felt a tap on my shoulder, and jumped a clear foot out of my skin.

"You ready?" Grissom asked, whom had been waiting for some other reason, I presume, or else I'd expect he'd already been in there.

"Yeah, just a little anxious." I mumbled, shaking my head. What would he think of me now, eh? A CSI who couldn't attend an autopsy? Sure, I'm very aware of it happening before, but I didn't exactly know these people to the fact that they'd overlook it, or at least pay it very little mind. Instead, I was forced into this situation, and I didn't like it at all.

"Butterflies?" He asked, I nodded. "The day you go onstage without butterflies is the day you quit." He remarked, and by the tone of his voice, I could tell he was quoting it from something, though what I wasn't quite sure. Instead I watched as David – I learned his name fairly quickly, besides, Grissom had told me about it earlier – carted the woman's body through the swinging doors and into the autopsy room. Sara was going to attend the autopsy as well, with Grissom and I, though I was really just watching the whole thing.

Which was where we got to my "suit," which was really not very much. I still had to scrub up and stuff, even though I didn't mind much reason for it. And I still wore a blue apron over my clothing, just in case. I watched the door patiently as Sara walked out, looking rather awkward in her own "suit" as well.

"You ready?" Second time I was asked this in the course of two minutes, "Yeah." I responded absentmindedly, my mind focused on what we'd find. I was taking mental notes already; walls were white – I think his was the only room, or one of them, that wasn't glass. I'm a good little note taker.

We walked into the room, where David had just finished up cleaning the body. She was now laid out on the autopsy table, a cloth resting from her toes to her bosom. There was an older man too, the coroner – Dr. Albert…something, I don't remember exactly what. Grissom and he were friends, though. Sara took up a place across the table from the coroner, by the woman's waist, while Grissom stood to her left, around the head and chest of the victim.

"There's clear stab sounds," Al (as Grissom called him informally), pointed to her chest, where just under her right collarbone, there was a thin stab, one directly under it, facing the opposite, vertical way, and one where the head of the wound was facing her neck in a strange, downward-sloping diagonal pattern. "However, the strange things about these wounds is that they go straight through."

"A longer knife, like a butcher knife?" Sara suggested, leaning forward to look closer at the wounds.

"Negative." He said, nodding toward Grissom, "If you would." And together they turned the body to it's right side, which showed the back to us. "Look at the exit wounds."

"They're not corresponding with the entry wounds." Sara pointed out again, looking carefully at the wounds.

"If you look closely," He placed his thumb and index finger close to the two sides of the first stab wound, pulling it apart gently so that the inside was visible. "That the object used to stab her was curved, like a machete of some sort. And the user had skill, too." Grissom nodded, watching closely. I, from my position between (and behind) them, peered over their shoulders to the wounds.

"It looks too curved to be a machete, more like a scythe." I offered up. I wasn't an expert on melee weapons, don't get me wrong, but there's a difference between the curving of a scythe and a machete, one's definitely much more dramatic.

We moved on quickly, moving down the body as we went. She had slight bruising on her hands, possibly from defending herself. "Though this was with a blunt weapon, not a sword." Al pointed out, turning her palm up. "Like a fist. See the style of the bruising? You can make out three distinct points of pressure – knuckles."

"So she was mugged?"

"Yes, but if you look at the distance of the knuckles," he pointed to the three severely bruised areas on her palm, "They're consistent to a female hand."

"She was attacked by two people." I concluded, after a moment. "I don't think a woman would be able to use a weapon for the stab wounds so cleanly, unless she had quite a bit of experience."

"Right," The coroner added, showing us a bruise on the back of her shoulder. "But this was the first blow." He pointed to the fist mark between her shoulder blade and her neck. "And it's big, male."

"So there were definitely two attackers."

The autopsy went well after that, and we let Albert off to go record his findings. Grissom went a separate way, while Sara and I remained, talking eagerly about the case. From the looks of it, she was very dedicated to her work, and I loved this job – call me dark, twisted, whatever – but I do. So this looked like the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

"The husband looks like a good bet." I stated as I removed the gown-like garment. "But the female…?"

"Possibly infidelity. It wouldn't have been the first time. Hitmen, perhaps, judging by the skill of the swordsman…"

"But the punches look out of order." I finished her sentence, and she smiled.

"You're good at this."

"I try."

We went on conversing for a while, talking about different motives. Infidelity seemed the greatest, and that the husband probably wanted his wife out of the picture. People seem to think that divorce is very messy – considering a goodly amount of the husbands funds would end up going to his wife, as well, judging by any kids the couple may have had, and other such things. Why divorce, when you can murder and have it all? The minds of humans are complex, but in an equal fashion they are also very predictable.

We sat in the break room for a while, just rambling on about different things. Our shifts were going to end soon, and we didn't have much to do. Okay, scratch that, we _did_ have stuff to do, but many of the techs weren't on a shift now, and the few who were weren't the kind we needed right now.

"What do you think about the blood on the wall? It wasn't splatter." I pondered, looking over my cup of coffee to her.

"I'm not sure. The wounds were through-and-through, so I'm thinking that she was pushed. They were consistent with the back, too." She pulled out a photo from a box we had near us of the scene, which we had taken with us for discussion. "See?" She pointed to one of the blood marks.

"I see two shoulder blades." I pointed to them.

"Exactly." She nodded, putting the photo in the box. "Excuse me." She said politely as she went to go return the box to it's proper place.

I waited patiently, looking around the halls of the lab through the glass windows in the walls. It seemed deserted, definitely not as active as it had been this afternoon. Empty, was perhaps the word – void of movement, life. It was sort of eerie, like being in a supermarket after hours, or going to the mall when nobody's there.

Sara came back soon enough and sat down, staring at the clock, which read 2:15AM. "Late, huh? Do you usually stay on shifts this long?"

"Sometimes. We get swing shifts a lot, depending on when the 911 call goes in. It would be wonderful if somebody planned a strict schedule for these murders." She sighed, shaking her head.

"It'd be perfect if there were no murders. But then again, we wouldn't get paid." She laughed a little, and I smiled, finishing my coffee. "Whose everybody on the team?"

"There's Grissom, Greg, and I – who you know already – and then there's Nick, he's pretty funny, and Warrick. Warrick's got a sense of humor, but he had a gambling problem, too."

"Oh."

"Yeah, there's Catherine, too. She's a single mom, and second in command, just below Grissom. Sofia's on the team, too, she's a detective and a CSI level three." I nodded, listening. "I can introduce you to them tomorrow – er, today – if you'd like."

"I wouldn't mind that."

A few more minutes went by before Sara decided to leave. I didn't want to stay at the lab by myself, not knowing anybody there. I didn't know if Grissom had stayed later than I had, but I felt sort of strange around him – he seemed like an empty shell, from what I gather. Feelingless, apathetic. I didn't want to be around him, or at least not alone in a lab that I was still rather unfamiliar with. So instead I walked out of the building, unclipping my ID and unlocking my car.

Seating myself, I ignited the engine and got ready for my long drive home.

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A/N: Woo, that's chapter three for you! Don't forget to review, it makes me happy inside.


	4. Chapter 4

**Twisted**

Chapter Four

I saw the road, it wasn't very interesting, either. It was a dark night, and there wasn't too much going on. The radio was on, though it was turned down lower, I'm not quite sure why. I watched the stop light turn from red to green, and the car moved forward, slowly starting. Everything seemed perfect until – CRASH!

A car slammed right into the one on the screen, and a man popped up, saying something along the lines of; "If you saw this coming, then call any insurance company. If you didn't, call Allstate." He kept rambling about stupid car insurance, which I already had, and I definitely didn't need more. It had been a little while since I'd gotten home, and I found it hard to sleep in my tired state, so I'd turned on the TV to be greeted by this very strange commercial. I was falling asleep on the couch, anyways.

I live in a fairly nice apartment, it's not small and squashed, like some I've seen, but it's very spacious and nice – almost reminds me of a condo, sort of – and it feels like a regular house, but without the prices. It's furnished in a nice way as well, it's livable, comfortable, and there's only a touch of modern culture within its walls. I'm no art freak, I can tell you that. So here I was, sitting innocently – or rather laying – on my couch, listening to the dull roar of the chaotic television. Before long, Cold Case came back on.

"And it seems that young Amanda Richardson's family thought so too, investigators, upon the parent's request, came in again to gather evidence on the case. It is believed that Amanda Richardson, twenty-four, was abducted from her Chicago home on…" I didn't pay much attention to the rest. I'm usually very enthusiastic about my crime shows, but tonight I was just out of it. Tired, too tired to sleep, and annoyed by the constant roar in my head. So much had happened already, it started to blur together, which was bad.

A good while passed before I was released from my thoughts, opening my eyes in time to see the opening clip of the Criss Angel Mindfreak show coming on. I like this show, but that didn't stop me from hitting the off button on the remote, lazily stumbling blindly into my room, now that the only source of light was extinguished.

"Ow!" I shouted, falling forward onto something cushiony and warm. I had hit my thigh on the very sharp point of my bed frame – again. So now I'd have four bruises, instead of just three. "Great." I mumbled, shaking my head as I crawled absentmindedly forward, reaching the head of the bed before falling asleep on the spot.

_Ring…_

_Ring…_

_Ring-ring…_

_Ring…_

_Ring…_

_Ring-ring…_

I mumbled something even I couldn't understand as I shifted under my covers, throwing the nearest item at the noise before drifting back to sleep. Though it seemed, just five minutes later…

_Ring…_

_Ring…_ and so on.

I sighed, trying to shove my head under the pillow like a groggy teenager, only to find that it wasn't there. Shaking my head, I sat up, rubbing my eyes. On my night stand was my phone, which I had made the mistake of leaving on. On the floor near it was my pillow, which I must have thrown. I picked it up and went about making my bed before checking my phone, hoping that whoever called would call back. Though they didn't, so I picked up my cell.

"_Message One at 1:15PM: 'Hey, it's Greg, Sara and we're on our way back to the McCaine household, we found some evidence. We'll be there around two.' End of Message One."_

"Oh," I mumbled, making a mental note on the time of their arrival.

"_Message Two at 1:25PM: 'It's Greg again, are you there? A call back would be nice. Sara's cell is 702 339 4234 (A/N: Don't call that number, it's a random number). Thanks.' End of Message Two."_

"God he doesn't seem to keep track of too much time." I mumbled as I looked at the third message.

"_Message Three at 1:45PM: 'Hey, Anna-Elise, it's Sara. We're wondering if you're at home, since it's on the way to the McCaine house. We found your address in you file, so don't think Greg was stalking you or anything…' 'Hey!' 'That was Greg, anyways we'll be there at two.' End of Message Three."_

"_Message Four at 1:55PM:"_ – "Shit! What time is it!?" – _" 'Greg again, are you alive? We're pulling onto your street, be there soon. Yada, yada.' End of Message Four."_

"Shit! Fuck! And other profanities!" I screeched, just in time for a pleasant…

_Ding-Dong._

"Aww screw it." Without looking at myself in the mirror, I took the bolt lock off of the door and slid it open, only to come face-to-face with Greg, who's hair wasn't spikey today. "Er… Hi."

"What happened to you?" He asked, holding back a snicker. I peeked around him and saw Sara walking up, raising an eyebrow at the same time, which made me wonder just exactly how bad I looked.

"Um, would you excuse me? You can come in if you want…" I left the door open as I retreated for the master bathroom, staring in horror at myself. I'd forgotten to take off my make up, which resulted in bruise-like smears around my eyes, I'd worn darker make up, so in this case the eyeliner and eye shadow looked like bruises, and my hair was very fizzy looking, visibly unbrushed. I fixed my face and my hair, changed into some new clothes, and went into my living room to find Greg shuffling through a book.

"Oh hey look, there's a person under there!" Greg teased as well, setting down a Shel Silverstein book my friend had got me a few hundred years back.

"Hey, you ready to go?" Sara asked, standing by the door.

"Yeah sure."

"Why didn't you answer my calls?" Greg asked as we walked down the stairs, "We were starting to wonder if you were dead."

"I was asleep." I mumbled, yawning.

"Close enough."

We got in the car, Greg riding shot-gun, which he had very immaturely claimed. So I sat in back of the Tahoe, admiring the upholstery. "So what'd we find out that's so important?"

"We measured the boot print we found in the shower, turns out it's a size ten, which is the same size the husband wears."

"Well maybe he decided to take a shower with his boots on?" I wasn't entirely awake just yet.

"Very productive." Greg managed to snicker out.

"Shaddup." I slurred, hitting his shoulder, which caused him to make a strange squeaky noise, though the desired effect of it all was present.

"So we've got a warrant to search his closet?"

"Yeah."

"You know he's probably gotten rid of those boots by now, right?" I mumbled, rubbing my eyes and stifling another yawn. "If he is the murderer, than he'd probably taken the chance when we didn't collect it as evidence."

"You're a pessimist." Greg pointed out.

"Great going Captain Obvious." I mumbled, having a very bad day already. Though I tried to look at the good points of this afternoon, at least I wasn't in obnoxious, black-mail-intended PJs, now was I? Nope, I was wearing nice, silky, black PJs. Yup, normal ones, too, not even some crazy nightgown-type thing. So in essence, aside from my totally messed up make up and horribly damaged hair, I had been perfectly fine. Right?

Somehow, I wasn't buying it.

The Tahoe slowed to a stop in front of the house, where there was another car – Brass's car I resumed. He had the warrant, anyways. Grissom was waiting there, too. Greg got out of the car with Sara, I waited a second, then followed suit. Everything was so calm this afternoon, it reminded me of a story. Pretty strange feeling.

We walked up to the door and Brass knocked, standing back. The husband answered it.

"Can I help you?" It was snitty how he said it, but none of us seemed too affected by it.

"Yeah, you can. We need your shoes."

"My shoes? Listen here; I'm grieving. There's a snowball's chance in hell that you-- …"

By that point, Brass had lifted up the warrant for his closet's contents, including wardrobe and shoes. "We've got a warrant." And with that, he pushed his way in. We were greeted by the same white room and glass stairs as we climbed up them, and down the hall we went, into the master bedroom.

Which to our surprise had been totally remodeled.

"Well, this is a change." I heard Grissom say as I pulled open the closet, staring at the wonderful assortment of dress shirts, over-coats, and suit pants, along with a very small section devote to casual clothing. There was a small dresser-like item below it, which I was guessing was socks, underwear, and ties. And next to that, we had shoes.

"This guy definitely doesn't seem like the work-boot type." I stated, having almost fully aroused myself from my sleepy state.

"Nobody said they were work boots. We ran the sole, turns out they're a type of 'dress-boot.'" Sara stated, kneeling down. "Where somebody came up with the idea for dress-boots, nobody knows."

"They contradict each other." I finished, working on bagging the clothing. "Full wardrobe, right Brass?"

"Yeah. Listen, I've got to go, important business. I take it you've got everything handled?"

"Yes." Grissom supplied as I heard the door open and close, signaling the retirement of Captain Brass. Sara and I worked on getting everything into boxes or bags, whichever fit the article of clothing, while Grissom looked around the room.

"He totally remodeled it." He observed as he examined the bed, without touching it, of course. The room had been re-arranged as well. Items were in different places, it was as if a new person lived there.

"Can grief actually compel somebody to do this?" Greg asked, sitting on the floor near Sara and I, picking through the man's undergarments – which either of us, through 'respect' didn't want to touch.

"Grief or murder."

I turned around, staring at the shut bathroom door. I got up, walked into the hall, and located the owner, asking him from atop the stairway. "Hey, can I use your bathroom?"

"Sure." He mumbled, still seeming bent about the encounter.

"Thanks."

I retreated back to the bedroom, and made my way to the bathroom. Without shutting the door, I examined it.

"He re-did the bathroom, too. Look? The tile is new, the shower is new, everything." I examined it, looking back through the open door. "Suspicious, suspicious." I tsk'd, turning to the toilet and pressing the handle, despite the fact it wasn't called for, before leaving through the still-open bathroom door.

By that time, the shoes, most of the fancy dress shirts and coats, along with the contents of the drawers had been emptied. I helped Sara get the pants down, though stopped short when I saw something on the cuff of the right leg.

"Wait, wait." I muttered as I bent down, looking at it. "Greg, get me a swab."

He handed me a swab, which I used to take a sample of the stuff on the pant leg. "It looks like dirt…" I said. Grabbing the kit, I picked up a bottle of liquid and dropped some over the swab, which turned a bright pink.

"Dirt and blood."

--

A/N: Woo, that's chapter four. Yup. Review, please.


	5. Chapter 5

**Twisted**

Chapter Five

The way back to the lab wasn't spectacular, though it was very interesting. Greg kept making strange comments, things in a teasing way, though I kept staring at his hair. His hair was pretty weird when it wasn't spiked.

"Why isn't your hair spiked, like it was yesterday?" I asked, probably sounding stupid. As if it's a crime for people to change their hairstyles…

"I usually have my hair like this, I used to spike it though, back when I was a Lab tech. Though I thought I'd do it again, just for a day. I felt spontaneous."

"Oh… Eh, your hair looks better spiked." I shook my head, crossing my arms and looking at the box of clothing that was sitting in the backseat with me. It wasn't very intriguing, considering it was just clothing, though the pants had been bagged, so we could get a sample and send it to the lab.

As we arrived, Sara walked inside, leaving me with Greg.

"Aww, that's nice," I mumbled, "Leaving me to carry everything in."

Greg looked very tempted to leave, but then, as if at last moment, grabbed a box of the clothing. "Nah, I'll help you. 'Cause I'm nice like that."

I smiled half-heartedly, grabbing one of the other, smaller boxes before toting it inside. I opened the door to the room Sara was in with my shoulder, holding it open as Greg walked in after me, sporting a large, awkward looking box. He plopped it down on the table, and I followed suit, walking back out for the other boxes of evidence.

Yes, boxes. When you loot somebody's wardrobe, you don't just shove it into one box. Anybody who's moved will tell you that. You have to keep boxes and boxes of stuff, and to fold it neatly – being the prime way to pack – takes up more space, and in our case, so does bagging. So we had at least seven to ten boxes, easily. Maybe more…

I sighed, staring at the huge load ahead of me. _Me_, wait a second here. I turned around, looking for Greg, who was supposed to be helping me. Not finding him, I begrudgingly picked up a box and started hauling it inside, where I found Greg walking in the hallway. "And where's my help?" I asked, glaring at him.

"I was just going to get some coffee…"

"Wrong answer." I shook my head, sure to hit him with my shoulder as I started back to the examination room. Putting the box down, I watched as Sara laid a piece of clothing out. "Which one is that?"

"It's the first outfit he wore on his trip. I'm examining it, and for some reason, I don't think he went on that trip."

"So you think he stayed here? Like, at a friend's house or something?"

"Yeah. See, look." She pointed to the shirt. "It's wrinkled. When you go on a business trip, you make sure you're dressed to the nine. No wrinkles, no stains." She explained, pointing out the wrinkles in the coat.

"And yet…" I paused, stopping my sentence and moving to a new one. "That'd explain the lack of casual clothing, in his closet. If he was at a friend's house, then of course he'd pack a few suits – for looks, but he wouldn't wear them publicly."

"Why didn't he just borrow from his friend?" Sara asked, looking up at me as Greg came in with a particularly heavy looking box. I ignored him.

"Maybe they were different sizes… Or maybe," I watched as Greg left, "His friend is a she."

I drafted Greg into carrying the rest of the clothing in, seeing as I was now helping Sara, and well, he was a lot stronger than I was – not that I'd ever admit it, though. So for a few ours, Sara and I split the clothing. I got dressy clothing, she got casual and accessories. We laid everything out carefully, searching it for blood, and if we did find anything, even mildly suspicious, swabbing it for Trace. Eventually we got to the pants that had the blood on it, in which we searched even more vigorously.

"Look at the pattern," I said, holding up the light. "It's like droplets. The only splatter is a little higher up. It shows force, see," I indicated the small area with my finger, "Like pulling a knife out of something."

We photographed it, swabbed it, and sent it to DNA.

We continued addressing the clothing, only getting a few other interesting things; like blood on one of his nicer casual shirts. We concluded that he wasn't wearing a suit, if and when he killed her.

"Sara," Grissom called for the door. "We're going back for the husband to interrogate him, want to come?"

"Nah, I'm fine right here. I've got some stuff to take down to trace. Do you want to go, Anna-Elise?" She asked me, picking up the swabs we'd collected.

"Sure, I'll go." I said, shrugging and following Grissom outside. Getting into the passenger side of his car, I buckled up, and waited as we drove back to the house we had just left a few hours earlier. The husband was sure to be unhappy about this, and if he did commit the murder, I could only imagine how paranoid he'd be. That made me smirk, and I made a mental note to watch for fidgeting and nervous behavior.

We arrived shortly after I concluded my thoughts on the subject, and I got out of the car, noting the police that were there – again. He was no doubt freaking out by now, either that or I was over-assuming. Grissom exchanged a few hushed words with Brass, and they approached the door, police officers in pursuit, I followed too. Brass knocked, and the husband answered.

"We've got some questions to ask you, so you're coming down to the station with us."

It was a pretty simple task, which made me question why I'd come in the first place. Though Brass led the man to the car, after the husband had left the door open. I looked at it, pondering if I should close it or not. And that's when my eyes hit it.

"Grissom, look at that." I said, pointing inside the house to the white wall, where perched thereon was a trophy-like plaque, which held three very long, scimitars. Grissom looked back at it, but he only smiled and said nothing as we went back to the car. The swords would have to wait, for now.

We arrived back, and filed him into a room with a two-way mirror on the wall, so people could watch from outside. I was outside, of course. Grissom and Brass were inside, asking all the questions. It was pretty standard, to a point. Greg had informed Grissom earlier on our findings with the clothes – the wrinkles, more than anything else.

"So where were you going on you business trip?" I heard Grissom ask, looking at the man. His eyes shifted to the left, as if trying to recall.

"North of here, in Carson City. I had a business offer."

"Where do you work?" Brass asked gruffly, keeping a strict eye on the man. I watched intently as he shifted, putting his hands on the table.

"I work for Prescott & Reige, it's a law firm. I'm a DA, and they needed me in Carson." He seemed unfocused, but that was to be expected. But, if he had been on a case, or had a client, then there'd be record of it. If he was lying, he sealed his fate.

"I hear you have a secretary, Miss Bridget Smith. Have you seen her recently?"

"No." He said that too quickly. Grissom didn't seem phased though, and moved right along.

"You like collecting swords?" He asked, trying to step down the defenses without granting innocence to the matter.

"Excuse me? What do swords have to do with anything?"

"I saw them in your house; I was just asking a question." He nodded, still looking at the man with a hard expression, though it lightened up – still, it was emotionless, or so it would seem. But that, was what I had come to perceive of Grissom. Quiet, apathetic, a perfect worker, in a way.

"Oh, yeah, those? I got them from my father a few years back. Isabelle hated them, always said they were trashy. So after… After…" He stopped, but it wasn't very convincing, "Well, I put them back up, to sort of cheer myself up."

"Did it help?"

"A little…"

Grissom shook his head and looked at Brass. "I'm done."

"Jonathan," Brass started, standing up. "You're free to go."

"Thank you." He stood up and extended his hand to Brass, which the Captain begrudgingly shook. The husband then left. I walked around to the door, looking over to Grissom.

"He wasn't too convincing. I'll go pull up records from Prescott & Reige." I offered, waiting for disapproval or the okay, either one was fine with me.

"He's not grieving." Grissom said as I had turned around, getting ready to go get those records.

"Of course not. Swords don't fill up your wife's place… Unless you stab them into her."

With that said, I walked down the hall, searching for the nearest phone available.


	6. Chapter 6

**Twisted**

Chapter Six

"Hello, Prescott & Riege, this is Bridget."

"Hello, I'm Anna-Elise of the Las Vegas Crime Lab. We need the records for a Mister Jonathan McCaine, for the days of October 22nd through 27th." I said, glancing quickly up to the calendar, noting that it was the twenty-ninth. Halloween would be coming up really soon, but I was a little old for that, wasn't I? "Was he in Carson City?"

"Hold on." I could hear the phone being put down, some conversation, and then some shuffling. I waited as patiently as I possibly could, glancing around the room. It was a standard lab-like room, complete with desk and materials needed to study something or examine it heavily. There wasn't anything too interesting in the room, so I shifted my glance to the calendar. Only a few more days to go…

"Okay," She said, picking the phone up. I was pretty sure she had a file, too. "Mr. McCaine was here on the 22nd through the 24th, when he left." I jotted down the note on a piece of paper, turning my attention back to the phone. "What time did he arrive, and leave?"

"4:30PM, on the 22nd, and he left at 3:44PM, on the 24th." I jotted that down as well.

"Thank you." I said, leaving the line open just long enough for her to reply, before hanging up. Glancing down at the notes, I smiled. "He had enough time to kill her." That was evidence, a crucial part. Paired with the swords, the blood on his wardrobe… The blood on his wardrobe, that was right. I looked up to the door, waiting for somebody to come down the hallway. When somebody did, I was thankful it was Sara.

"Hey, Sara," I called, getting up, note in hand, and jogging to the door. "Are the lab results in yet?"

"Not yet," She replied, almost sadly, "The lab's backed up, we won't get our results for a few more hours. What'd Prescott & Riege say about Mr. McCaine?" She asked me, and I nodded, showing her the note.

"He _was_ there," I admitted, "But he was home long enough to commit the crime. Still…" I paused, looking for the right word, "Something doesn't seem right. He doesn't have a _motive_, though we can, possibly, place him at the scene of the crime."

Sara nodded, understanding. "I was about to take a break, want some coffee?"

"Sure, I've got nothing better to do. 'Sides, my back hurts." I winced over-exaggeratingly, stretching my arms. We found our way to the break room, and nobody was there, which I really didn't have an issue with. Sara brought two cups of coffee over, and I took mine gingerly, sipping the warm beverage.

I remembered how dependant I was on the liquid as I took that sip, seeing as I had forgotten it this morning – more namely this afternoon. I relaxed for a brief moment, losing myself in the wonder that was coffee. Though I was soon brought back to reality as I heard the break room door open seemingly clumsily.

"Hello ladies," Greg greeted us with a childish grin on his face. "You know what today is?"

"The day you leave us alone?" I said hopefully, though I was kidding all the same. His grin faltered, just for a moment, but he regained it's posture and continued on, as if I hadn't said anything. I just smiled at him.

"It's the twenty-ninth." He supplied when nobody gave an accurate answer. Sara eyed him funnily, giving him a look that suggested he better cut to the chase.

"Meaning, Halloween is in a few days." Funny how I'd only been thinking that earlier. Though this offered me quite a bit of space to lash out with a snide remark and get him for earlier. I needed my revenge. I needed it like I needed my coffee.

"Aren't you a little _old_ to be dressing up, Greg?" I couldn't contain my snickering. "Or is there something we should know about?" After saying that, Sara started laughing lightly. He frowned, crossing his arms, in a very childish way, which made my snickers turn to laughter, and Sara's laughter become harder. After a moment, we'd contained ourselves, and Greg seemed ready to carry on with his ramblings.

"Anyways – Catherine wanted me to tell you, since she's busy at the moment, that after shift, Lindsey is going to be at a Halloween party with her friends, so she's having one at her house."

I raised an eyebrow. "Catherine is having a party?"

Sara just sort of stared for a moment. It seemed very strange that Catherine would have a Halloween party, but I shrugged. So long as there weren't little kids running around everywhere or something crazy like that. "After shift, that's… What, like two in the morning?"

"Yeah, well, she's inviting some of the other CSIs, too, so it's going to be _big_." By now, Greg's childish grin came back. "There's a best costume award, too."

Sara and I exchanged glances for a minute. I had just met Catherine a little earlier, but it seemed already out of character for her to have a party of any sort. She seemed more the party-goer than the party-thrower. Greg had already, however, gotten himself a cup of coffee during my mental going-ons, and sat down near me.

"So what are you going as?" I asked as he slipped an invitation that Catherine had written up to Sara and I. His grin just got bigger, if that was even physically possible – I assumed it was, since it did.

"It's a secret." He seemed very proud of his costume, and the fact that it was secret, that it all seemed very immature. Though I couldn't help laughing at it. Sara seemed to remain quiet through this, as if she was contemplating if this was some sort of trick. I raised my eyes to her, giving her a questioning look.

"Are you going to go?" I asked her after a minute, and she looked at me.

"I might… I mean, I don't have anything else going on." Greg seemed even happier at this. "Are you?"

"I _guess_." Greg seemed, yet again, happier. By now, he resembled a small child on a sugar-high, who was just begging to get something knocked out of it – like piñata or something. I don't like kids too much. I can tolerate them, if they're older, but younger kids and I just don't mix without serious consequence.

We sat around the table, still talking about different things. Our topic of conversation had switched from the upcoming party – which made me feel like an adolescent again, on the inside – to our case. We were comparing evidence to what we knew already about the husband and the wife, and the secretary. Our aim of conversation then switched to movies, and before I'd realized it, an hour had passed.

"Hey, hey- Did you see that movie about that guy who got killed by his taxi cab driver?" Greg asked enthusiastically. To my surprised, Sara chimed up.

"Yeah, that was an interesting movie. Though it wasn't very… _realistic_." Greg didn't seem disappointed by this, so he kept rambling about the movie with Sara, who'd give him answers that weren't so enthusiastic. I guess it wasn't the best movie in the world, but Greg seemed to like it, a lot. Maybe too much…

"Hey Sara," I interrupted, ignoring Greg's unhappy look. "Just how far were the labs backed up?"

"Pretty far… They said maybe later on tonight, around midnight or so, they'd have it. Catherine's working a double homicide with Warrick and Nick, and they brought in quite a bit of things that needed to be processed. It was a higher priority than our case."

A quick glance at the clock told me it was a little after six. "Well, we've got six or so hours to burn, anything that needs examining?" My eyes strayed to people busily walking down the hallway outside of the break room. "We got the pants, what about the dirt? Did the dirt come in yet?"

"Yeah, we got the dirt in before Catherine's case came up. Turns out it was a match to the soil outside." I nodded.

"So that puts somebody outside, with a size ten foot and dress boots, inside the tinted shower." I concluded, really just putting all the information together. "We found blood and dirt on his pants, too, which means he was probably outside… In dress pants. I just don't get how the dirt got on his pants."

"He could have been kneeling? Tying his shoe, maybe? The boots _did_ have laces on them." Greg offered.

"Yeah, we didn't find any shoeprints outside, though." Sara added, nodding to Greg. "What about that?"

"The gardener said he was in that day, working on the front of the house. He could have brushed them away. But there's no doubt, our guy was there at some point."

"But just when?"

--

A/N: Well, that, was short. I've noticed my chapters are getting shorter. I blame the popcorn. Anyways, that was pretty meaningless, but next chapter will get more interesting, seeing as we've got Catherine throwing a Halloween party. Disaster? Who knows…


	7. Chapter 7

**Twisted**

Chapter Seven

We went on like this for an hour or so, taking out pictures of various things. We concluded that he was there, at some point, though were somewhat baffled by the lack of physical evidence supporting that. I furrowed my brow together, brooding over a point that Greg had made just previous, about the clean soil outside.

"You know…" I started, mulling over my answer, "he _does_ live there. Maybe something happened? He could have fallen, and the blood… Well the blood is suspicious, but it doesn't mean he's a murderer." My fingernails were lazily tapping on the table we were sitting at, though they didn't seem loud enough to bother anybody, but they _did_ aid my thinking.

"She has a point." Greg nodded, looking at Sara as if expecting her to magically bring up some topic that we hadn't discussed yet. Instead she remained silent, contemplating in a way much like mine – minus the fingernail tapping. Though when she didn't say anything, Greg looked back at me. "Then we might have another suspect."

"What about that Bridget lady?" I asked, "Didn't he know her?"

"Yes, he did." Sara finally said, as if putting in a vital piece of the puzzle. "He did know her, though how well, exactly?" Once again we had another question to look into, fodder for the fire. I nodded, zoning out in thought. "We should find out."

And so it was agreed.

The topic of conversation after that swayed dramatically, moving on from murder to random, miscellaneous topics, and thus landing on Catherine's party. Catherine… Party, still, my brain didn't seem to comprehend it too well. Greg was randomly talking about certain ideas for certain costumes, but never went into too much detail.

"You think you're going to dress up?" I asked Sara, seriously thinking she wouldn't. I'd grown close to her, as a friend of course, seeing she was a lot like myself. She looked thoughtful for a minute, then nodded slowly, leaving me to puzzle over this oddity. I settled on the idea that our brains had been secretly eaten by our pillows. She still seemed thoughtful, and Greg was throwing an assortment of colorful questions at her, asking everything from when she was going to be there, what she was going to dress up as, was anybody gonna come with her, and many others similar.

"I think… I'll dress up as…" She paused, and Greg looked like he was about to explode. Somehow I think his childish side had taken too much control over him. "Ah, you'll see."

"No!" It reminded me of a dramatic movie, because he drew it out sort of, though in a teasing way. We both knew he wasn't serious, though I think he was convinced he was. "I wanted to know."

"We know that, Greg." Sara and I said, in unison so creepy we had to steal a glance at each other. Greg seemed utterly amused by this, and turned to me. "So what are you going as?" I swear he'd asked that before…

"Um, I'm not sure." I really hadn't given much thought to it, so of course I had no clue what I was going to go as. A few ideas slipped through my head, consisting mainly of generic lines of costumes; angels, vampires, maids… I shook my head absent mindedly, scolding myself for my lack of creativity. I must have lost track of everything, because I finally realized that I was sitting somewhere with people, and Greg waving two fingers in front of my face. I shook my head with more enthusiasm, a vain attempt to get it off of trashy costumes.

As it would occur, the Halloween party was actually _today,_ sort of, seeing as it was directly after the shirt, and it being around seven in the morning. I'd finally gotten off of my shift, and after doing so, headed to the nearest Starbucks. Grabbing the largest size macchiato, I turned my car into the large parking lot, observing the large warehouse that had been turned recently into a Halloween Super Store. I sat in my car, at seven in the morning, sipping my macchiato thoughtfully. Just what would I find in there? Anything of interest? What if it sucked? I shrugged against the upholstery of my Mercury, contemplating the pros and cons of walking in that store.

With the last slurp of my life-giving coffee finished, I took the empty cup with me, throwing it away in the nearest trash receptacle. It was around 8:30 (I'd stayed in the car for a good hour and a half, listening to music and savoring my coffee), and the store wasn't open for another half hour, so I walked to the nearest open store, which happened to be a music outlet. The crazy thing about Vegas is that everything isn't always open.

So instead I focused on browsing aisle after aisle of CDs, making my way from the R&B section to New Wave, Rock and then onto Metal, stopping absent mindedly before one of the twisted, grotesque covers. Deciding Metal was not my type, I retreated to the Alternative section, where I was delighted to find all the music I'd probably ever hoped for.

My hand shot out at a random cover, and me being me, I ended up missing it completely and hurting my hand on the rail keeping it from falling on the carpeted floor. Cursing under my breath, I took a second stab, snatching it up before nursing my now bruising hand. I stared long and hard at the CD, which was a fairly popular band, though one I didn't particularly pay much attention to. I glanced over the back, decided I was uninterested, and put it back.

The beauty of some music outlets is that some don't sell _just_ music. Some sell other things, like magazines, books, comics, and other things you might find in the basement of the mother of a 33-year-old homebody and/or flunky. I grinned, trotting maybe a little too happily toward the large rack of tabloids, skimming through them without too much thought. Delighted, I plucked one up in a more careful manner than the CD endeavor, and flipped a few pages, running my eyes over a brief article about Britney Spears or something, titled '_Oops, She Did It Again_'. I almost laughed as I read it, taking solace in the idea that there were people out there more messed up than I was. When I was finished, I glanced up at the clock, which read 9:18, just a little after opening time. Grabbing the CD I'd placed down, I went to the counter and purchased it.

After the short walk to the Halloween Super Store, I found out that, no matter how old you are, you can _always_ celebrate Halloween. Perhaps you're wondering how I found that out? Queue the eighty-some-odd year old man buying a Leatherface mask. Scary. So I found the women's section and started skimming the aisles. I really didn't expect to find anything unique – how anything is _unique_ when at least fifty other women are probably going to be wearing it at the same time as you, I have no clue.

So the costumes consisted of fairly the same thing. All very sexy she-devils, sexy witches, sexy Morticia Adams, sexy fairy, sexy M&Ms, sexy handcuffs, sexy jailbirds, sexy zombies, and anything else you could logically – or even somewhat illogically – put the word sexy in front of. Shaking my head, I worked farther down, finding the other, more creepy outfits. One in particular caught my eye, and it just so happens it was a _nurse_ costume. Okay, yeah, I'm not the one to wear something particularly skimpy on purpose, when I know there will probably be drunken men staring at me – but if there are other women, wearing other skimpy things, then okay. They'll probably look at them.

But that wasn't what allured me. It was a horror costume, from the game Silent Hill, which had recently come out on DVD… maybe a few months ago, but sure. It was Halloween, right? The costume came with a few simple things; the nurse uniform, ripped tights, hat, and even the mask – yes, there was a mask, the nurses in that movie had _ no_ faces whatsoever. I laughed, wondering quietly to myself if anybody would realize it was me under there. Figuring they wouldn't, I picked it up.

Of course the costume didn't come with shoes, so I looked around that section for a while, finding a pair of white heels, which looked more like they'd go with a sexy angel costume than a not-so-sexy-but-yet-still-very-sexy dead nurse costume. I grabbed them after making sure they had a pair in my size, and walked to the accessories, where I found some nice fake blood I could douse them in. I never planned on using pearl white hooker heels ever again, so why not?

Last but not least, I had to try the thing on. I was very sure it was my size, I checked the back of the little cardboard thing that tells you what size you're in (as if I already didn't know). Though I wanted to make sure I wasn't making a huge mistake. So I meandered toward the dressing rooms, decided what I'd take in (the shoes, the outfit) and found a stall.

Getting the outfit out of the container was a bit tricky, but I managed it. Putting it on, I examined how it worked on me, and decided it was okay. Slipping on the tights, fixing my hat, and putting on the shoes, I settled on the idea that it was the best costume I'd find. After a few minutes, I finally decided to take it off, put it back in the container, and leave after purchasing my cart – which wasn't really a cart.

The drive home was tricky, seeing as I was excited to fix up and dirty the shoes; it's always fun to dirty brand new white hooker heels. I arrived home pretty quickly, unloading my car and taking in my CD, which I really had no use for. Putting it in the CD player, I opened the box my shoes came in, opened the fake blood, and went to town. Ten minutes and one tube of FX blood later, I finally had some fairly good results. Nodding, I took them to my backyard, where I had a patch of dirt – where some flowers rested neglected, and threw them down. The wet FX blood caught a little mud, which made them look older, and the shoes themselves started looking just as beat up as my nurse's uniform. Satisfied, I took them back inside, just in time to hear my phone ring.

"Hello?" I asked, resting the phone on my left shoulder while I replaced the worn shoes into their box. The other end of the line was quiet for a second, and I was tempted to hang up.

"Oh, hi, sorry." I heard Sara say on the other line, having done something I suppose. "I was letting the puppy…" She couldn't finish her sentence.

"You have a puppy?" The words formed without much supervision of my brain, and thus sounded rather rushed and spontaneously shocked. I heard a shuffling on the other line, a yipping, and something that sounded much like an expensive furniture massacre.

"Uh, not really. He's my cousin's, I'm just watching him." I nodded, playing with the corner of the CD case. "Anyways I called because I felt I should warn you," She paused, to cover the phone and scold the puppy, "To turn your ringer off. Greg might bombard your phone with messages and such." I felt an eyebrow raising already.

"…Why?" I asked, letting my brain do a little more work this time, "Would he do that?"

"He's called my house at least… fifteen or so times since I got home. At first I picked up, and he wouldn't stop talking." Another pause, probably a puppy doing unspeakable things to a carpet or something that looked suspiciously like something he should chew. "Just thought I'd tell you. He'll probably try to get your costume plan out of you, he's obsessed with the idea of winning the best costume…award."

"Oh, thanks." I said quietly, staring at my carpet. "Yeah, I'll turn my ringer off."

"Yeah, okay… Chewy! Down! No! Arrrggghhhcrash-click." Was the last I heard from Sara's end of the line. I laughed to myself as I turned my ringer off, turning the volume of my message machine off as well. Quieting the CD player, I headed silently off to bed, questioning why exactly Greg was so obsessive.

A/N: Haha, I make you wait another chapter for the party! Woohoo! Anyways, yeah, I've never actually _seen_ a Silent Hill costume, like, ever. But you know, I do have _ some _creative liberty, now don't I? Anyways, review. Hiatus is oveeerr!


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